


in sickness and in health

by mwestbelle



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Community: bandom_hc, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:12:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwestbelle/pseuds/mwestbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WWII AU in which Bob married his fallen comrade's wife out of duty, but Frank is not so fallen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in sickness and in health

**Author's Note:**

> **warnings:** off-screen character death, angst, threesomes, discussion/memories of war
> 
>  **notes:** Thank you so much to cool_rain_kiss who corralled all my commas and was the best editor/sounding board/cheerleader I could want ♥ Thanks to spuzz and anoneknewmoose for listening to me chatter/bitch about this fic, and thanks to everyone who read parts of it at some point in time and wanted to see more :D Title and cuttext from Catholic wedding vows

The sea was rough, and the boys behind him loud. Many were worse off than he was, with limbs gone, eyes missing, bandaged and slinged and wrapped. They were more deserving than he, struggling through all manner of desperate injuries, but they were the ones who sang and laughed the entire passage it seemed. And Bob, with only his pathetic bound wrists, stood at the rail, facing away from the celebration behind him in favor of the dark choppy sea. They would hit New York in the morning, and this was their last celebration, their last night of service. They didn't know precisely what they would be returning to, but they knew that it was better than what they were leaving behind. The battles, the muck, tears and blood and shrapnel in the air. Bob was a failure. He was coming home after a handful of months in the war with busted wrists and nothing else to show for it. He was coming home to a widow.

Frank had died a month prior. In the rush of the battle, Bob hadn't even noticed that he was down. He would hate himself for the rest of his life for that; he never had a chance to say goodbye, wasn't there to hold Frank while he died. He didn't even have a body to bring home to Jamia--he was blown to pieces by a mine, ripped up by bullets, any of the myriad ways that a soldier was so quickly reduced to nothing but meat. Bob had seen them all and imagined more, and in his mind's eye, it was always Frank dying. They enlisted together because they were best friends who wanted to be _patriots_ , wanted to save the world. And now Frank was dead, and Bob was all Jamia would have.

He went to bed while the others were still up, singing, and he knew that he was pathetic. These boys, his fellows, had lost so much, and they were all able to summon happiness up from somewhere inside them. Bob feared he had none left. Only an empty oil drum in his chest, resonant and hollow and slick enough that nothing could take hold again.

When the morning came, he got off the boat and took a train to Jersey. It had been his home since his mother had moved the pair of them out after his father died in one of Chicago's endlessly gaping mills. His mother was buried here now, and it was where Frank should have been buried. Bob had taken his uniform off in the train station bathroom because he didn't want the stares. He didn't want to have his hand shook, he didn't want to be called a hero. He wasn't a hero, and there was no reason for anyone to treat him different. The train ride was slow but quiet, and that was all he wanted. His uniform felt heavier in his bag than his clothes had.

Jamia and Frank's house was on a neat little street. It was small, blue, just the right size for a young couple and their eventual family. Bob felt hulking and awkward standing on their--on _her_ \--porch ringing the doorbell. It was a few minutes before the door opened, and it wasn't Jamia who answered it.

"Oh. I must...I have the wrong house," Bob said, his lungs going cold with the nerves, but the woman shook her head. She had dark hair in what he knew they were calling "Victory rolls" these days and bright red lips.

"I live across the street. You must be Robert." Bob nodded, and she stepped out of the way so he could walk into the house. The little entryway looked the same as it had when he and Frank had stood here, the morning they shipped out. Frank had dipped Jamia back, kissing her hard, desperate, and Bob had flushed and looked away, pretending he couldn't see and trying to give them some illusion of privacy. Everything looked the same, but Frank and Jamia weren't there and he could smell pie. The door closed behind him and the woman offered him her hand, mouth set into a serious line. "Lindsey Way."

Bob took her hand, even though it was strange, and shook it just as seriously. "Nice to meet you."

"It's true, then? Not a...a clerical error or some such?" Her lips were so red, pressed together, and Bob expected his stomach to drop or swoop, for his chest to ache. But he just nodded.

"It's true. I...he's dead."

Lindsey nodded, obviously unsurprised, then considered him. She nodded again. "Jamia is in the kitchen. We're baking."

Once she'd said it, the warm buttery scent of something in the oven came over him again. It smelled like home, nothing like endless muddy battlefields and sick men and gun powder. He followed Lindsey into the house, back to the kitchen. The radio was on, far less crackly than the few broadcasts from home they'd managed to pick up overseas, and Jamia was facing the counter, head moving a little, back and forth to the beat of the music.

"He's here," was all Lindsey said, and Jamia turned around. She had flour nearly up to her elbows and her hair was down, dark and shiny around her shoulders, and Bob was hardly an expert, but she looked about ready to pop.

He remembered when Frank had slipped into his bunk at boot camp, climbing in under the thin blanket and pushing his cold bare feet against Bob's ankles. Bob had sworn under his breath, trying not to wake up any of the other men, while Frank pressed a fist with a letter clutched in it against his chest. "Jamia, she's. She's not coming."

"What? Why not? Did she...did she not make it?" It had been their plan since the beginning: Bob and Frank would enlist and Jamia would be a nurse, and all three of them would be fighting for a greater cause. Bob couldn't imagine a woman as cool and capable as Jamia getting turned away when Lord knew they needed all the help they can get.

"She, uh. She failed her...her physical." Frank's lips were stretched wide, and he kept licking them, eyes darting around. He was nervous, hiding something that Bob could never have guessed. He didn't get a chance to ask, though, because Frank couldn't hold it in anymore. "She's pregnant." Bob stared, and Frank giggled helplessly, pressing his face to Bob's shoulder to stifle the sound. "She's...Bob, I'm gonna be a _daddy_." Bob hadn't known what to do, what he could say, but Frank's eyes were so huge and happy. He'd pulled Frank into a full body hug, pressing him up to his chest and murmuring his congratulations.

But knowing Jamia was pregnant was nothing like seeing her, round and swollen under the high bust of her dress. She had a bit of flour on the collar of her dress and her lipstick was all but worn off. She looked afraid, almost, and Bob had never seen Jamia afraid of anything. Not when they shipped off, or when her father had died in a factory accident. He never wanted her to be afraid of him.

"I'm home," he said, because it was all that he could think of to say, and Jamia smiled. It was just a small smile, and her eyes were still wary and tired, but it was still a smile. Bob walked forward, duffel brushing the floor, hanging forgotten from his hand. He wrapped his arms around her and gathered her to him, as much as he could. Her belly kept him back now, and the firm press of it against his abdomen made his cheeks flame for reasons he couldn't explain.

"Welcome back," she said, and her voice was quieter than he ever remembered Jamia being. She was always so full of life, a magnet for sound and energy and excitement of all kinds. Frank was magnetized to her, or so Bob had always thought. There was silence for a moment or two, then the oven timer buzzed, and Jamia stepped away from him, turning back to her baking. "We're making pie. For the effort."

"It smells delicious." Bob was wary of coming any closer. She seemed set in her own path, with no room for anything else to come from the wayside. He hadn't thought he would be one of those things, strange and unwanted, and he'd never imagined he would feel out of place in Frank and Jamia's kitchen. But he couldn't place where he was meant to be, couldn't stand or lean against the counters without being in the way, and there was nothing alluring about leaving her here to sit in one of the neat dining room chairs.

Lindsey had been in the room, but in Jamia and Bob's silence, she entered the conversation. She told Bob about her work down at the base, where she helped build the planes that helped young men fight their battles. Both her husband and his brother were still entangled in the war, overseas, and she and her brother-in-law's wife drove to work together and took turns making sandwiches to eat at lunchtime. It was strange to hear this side of the story, to hear a wife's frustrations about letters that didn't come for weeks and finally showed up with half of the words blacked out. To know that she slept in a too-cold double bed that didn't give her a moment's rest, just as her husband must have been lying awake and lonely in tents or in the mud.

They made berry pies, from fresh ones gathered and preserved before summer had ended. Bob still felt hulking and wrong, leaning against the counter and watching them, but Lindsey's friendly and frank stories warmed him a little. It felt more normal than anything had in months.

It wasn't until after Lindsey left that Bob realized how silent Jamia had been all day. She still wasn't speaking, and the quiet lay hazy and oppressive over them. He sat on the sofa in their neat little living room, a purchase from Sears that she and Frank had giggled over, so excited, while Bob had solemnly posted the check, with a hand-crocheted blanket hanging over the back. Jamia was in the kitchen, washing the dishes. She stayed there long after the running tap had gone silent too. Bob thought it would be wrong to follow her into her space, though the entire house was hers now. He waited on the sofa, and eventually she came out. Her belly led her, really, and Bob wondered how long it would be before she had her baby. Alone.

Jamia stood in front of the sofa, one hand resting on top of the swell of her belly and the other on her hip. It was almost a familiar position, though there had been no room to argue with the plant of her hands on her hips before. Now, it seemed like simply a convenient resting place. Bob waited for her to speak first, and it took a few heavy moments, but she did eventually. "You're home."

"Am I?" Bob hadn't anticipated the words; they sounded hard in the air, and there was a flicker of something across her face. Her eyes dropped, and Bob saw all the new lines of worry: creases around her eyes, the corners of her mouth. She was alone now, he knew. She had the house, true, but she also had a baby on the way. He didn't know what they might have paid her after Frank's death, but it wouldn't be enough to support a child.

Frank had crawled into his bunk more often than that first time, telling Bob his news. It was comfortable, and Bob was never surprised to wake to Frank climbing in next to him, knees bumping together and his breath hot against Bob's chest. Sometimes they would just lie there, and sometimes they would whisper jokes and stories to each other in the dark. They felt less lonely, pressed close in the dark. But one night, a day or so before they shipped out, Frank crawled in and fisted his hand in the wifebeater Bob slept in, his forehead sweaty when it touched Bob's.

"What's wrong?" Bob had long since trained his voice to stay low, in the rumbling quiet register that wouldn't wake any of their fellows. Frank shook his head minutely, slightly wet hair brushing against Bob's forehead. "Did you hear something?" Bob swallowed, not wanting to ask it but knowing the likelihood. "Is it...is it about Jamia?"

"Of course it is," Frank grumbled back. He pulled back, barely; his nose was still touching Bob's, but his eyes met Bob's as well, dark and wild. "I could die."

Bob's mouth went immediately dry and he swallowed hard, blinking. Frank was too close, too serious, and he didn't want to hear any of this. "Fuck off. You're not going to--"

"I _could_ ," Frank insisted immediately. "I...it's not just could, it's pretty fucking _likely_."

"Don't say that," Bob said, and it sounded plaintive and pathetic in the hot silence of the night, but Frank didn't seem to notice.

"If I die, Jamia...she'd be alone. With our baby. Both of them." Frank's voice was rough, harsh in a way that Bob had never heard before. "I won't do that to them."

"Then don't die. This is ridiculous."

"I want you to take care of her."

Bob frowned. "What?"

Frank licked his lips quickly, but his gaze never faltered. "Take care of her. If...if anything happens to me. You have to take care of her."

"Nothing is going to happen to you," Bob murmured. He couldn't bring himself to say it any louder than that. Frank shook his head.

"Promise. Swear to me you'll take care of her."

Bob bit his lip, and there was no reason to get out of this, no reason _not_ to say it no matter how cold the pit of his stomach got when he thought about it. "I promise. Swear. I will."

Frank stared at him for another long moment, then nodded, like everything was decided. He leaned in and kissed Bob's forehead, and then he was gone, scurrying back to his own bunk. He never mentioned it, not on the long boat ride that he spent with his head pillowed on Bob's shoulder, not during any of the endless hours waiting to fight. And now he never would mention it, but Bob had made a promise. He _swore_.

"Of course you're home," Jamia said, and Bob ducked his head at the faint pain in her voice. "This...we're home."

Bob didn't know how to say it, not when she was looking at him like that and not any other time either. How _could_ he say it, while she stood in front of him, a pregnant widow? But he did say it. "Marry me."

Jamia blanched. "What?"

"Marry me," Bob repeated, and it felt even stranger on his lips the second time around. "I promised him I'd take care of you."

Jamia's mouth set into a tight line. "I can take care of myself."

"And the baby?" She looked away, and Bob got off the couch. He took a step forward, almost close enough to touch. "He...I owe him this, at least. And you. You shouldn't have to be alone."

"I shouldn't have to be widowed before I'm twenty-five," Jamia snapped, looking back at him with cold eyes. "This is my life, Bob, you can't just ride in and _fix_ me."

"I don't--I'm no better. You know I'm not." Bob shook his head and rested his hands lightly on her elbows. His wrists protested loudly, but he pulled her closer anyway. "You and me, we have to stick together."

Jamia was stiff for a few minutes, but she leaned into him eventually. Her hands were warm even through his shirt when she wrapped her arms around his back, accepting the comforting touch.

The wedding was nothing at all like a wedding. Bob still had some pull on a friend who had become a preacher, and he agreed to marry them despite Jamia's condition. Lindsey, and the mentioned Alicia Way, served as the only guests and witnesses. Alicia was dark like Lindsey, though she seemed grimmer. She was thin, and the dark circles under her eyes belied her smiles and wit. Bob would have wanted them both there simply for the support they'd given Jamia through these months, but he found himself liking both of them immensely. They understood, it seemed, and Lindsey made a small cake for them to share, just to make it feel a little more like a celebration.

That night, Bob slept in the guestroom like he had been for the past few weeks. Nothing changed between them, as far as Bob could tell. Jamia continued in all of her homefront efforts, and Bob tried to stay away from the world as much as he could. He got a job in a local hardware store, owned by the son of his high school Chemistry teacher. The hours were easy, and the pay was suspiciously good. He was meant to go to the hospital to check in, but his wrists had been feeling much better, so he didn't mention it.

It was nearly a month into their "marriage" that Bob's avoidance and labor at the store came back to punish him. He woke in the morning with a throbbing pain in both of them, enough that he couldn't even move his hands. He was standing in his room, feeling the brunt of it on him. He was a grown man, a veteran, who couldn't dress himself. He couldn't put on a shirt, or pull on a pair of pants, brush his hair. He didn't know how long the pain would last, but as long as it did, he was entirely helpless. His chest ached. He had been plagued by dark feelings since Frank had died, and now it felt that they were all circling around his head.

He wasn't sure how long he stood, but he passed the usual time for breakfast because Jamia rapped lightly on his door. He didn't answer; he couldn't answer. And she opened the door. He didn't want her to see him like this--in just his underwear and so entirely pathetic--but she just clucked her tongue.

"You never did take care of yourself, did you?"

Bob had no response for that, true as it was, and he shook his head mutely. Jamia rolled her eyes. She was becoming more and more like her old self with every day; her smiles were brighter and longer, and her eyes glittered again. She walked to his closet with clear purpose and brought out a shirt and pair of pants, lying them on the bed. She took the shirt and held it up, pointedly. "Can you hold your arms out at all?"

It twinged for him to stretch, but his wrists were still enough that it wasn't unbearable. Jamia was endlessly careful, pulling one sleeve over his arm, and then guiding the other as well. Her belly brushed against his, only sheathed in an undershirt, while she did up the buttons with steady precision. She left the topmost one open and smiled up at him. She retrieved the trousers, and Bob did his best not to turn beet red.

Jamia had to use the chair to help her down to a kneeling position, but she bunched up the legs of his pants and held them so he could step into them. Then she straightened, incrementally, until her nose was level with his navel and she was buttoning his pants in some bizarre reversal. There was a healthy flush about his cheeks, and he couldn't even offer a hand in aid while she heaved uncertainly back to her feet. She was breathing hard by the time she was upright, but she rested a hand on her belly as if to steady whoever might be shifting inside and gave him a sunny smile through her deep breaths. "There we go. You'll go to the hospital tomorrow?"

Bob nodded, and the corner of Jamia's smile quirked up. She turned and left the room as calmly as she'd entered, and Bob tried to think of anything but his half-hard cock in his pants.

He did go to the hospital the next day and had his wrists wrapped. He was back at the hospital in a little over a month, however, to a far more urgent purpose.

The hospital seemed stranger this time, while he was waiting in the hall. Everything was _strange_ , the world and time stretched out in odd ways. He didn't know how long it had been when the doctor emerged and beckoned to him.

"She's resting now," he said, and Bob nodded, helpless. He was led down the hall, to the room where he could look through a neat glass window at a vast number, it seemed, of babies. In the second row, where the doctor pointed, was a tiny dark haired little thing. The name plate on the front of the bassinet said BRYAR. The doctor offered Bob his hand to shake. "You have a lovely daughter."

Bob took the doctor's hand and thought, _No, I don't._ This impossibly tiny person wasn't his. She didn't belong to him, and he could lay no claim to her. There was no reason for him to be so fascinated, then, staring at the wisps of dark hair coming out from under a pink woolen cap. At the smallest hand he'd ever seen, perhaps the length of his own thumb. Little pink cheeks, and even from so far away, the fan of tiny dark eyelashes against them. She was the most perfect thing Bob had seen in his life. And he _did_ have a lovely daugher, he realized. He was the only father she would ever have, and it was a bittersweet thought. His stomach turned over but also warmed. That little girl was his little girl now.

"I named her Frances," Jamia told him, when he was finally allowed to see her. She still look extremely tired, but happy. _Proud_. "It...it was just right."

Bob agreed, and he squeezed Jamia's hand to show it. "It's a beautiful name for a beautiful girl." Jamia flushed, and she nodded, squeezing back.

Frannie was almost a year old when Lindsey's husband came back from the war. Bob had been bouncing Frannie on his knee, making the kind of ridiculous faces at her that he hadn't even known his face was capable of twisting into. Jamia had taken the phonecall, and Bob had known immediately that something had happened. He did his best not to listen and to just focus on Frannie's burbling giggles, until Jamia hung up the phone and came back to the nursery. Her forehead was knitted, and Bob could tell she was trying to figure out what to say.

"Gerard is home," she said, finally, and Bob remembered all the letters that Lindsey had shown them with shy fondness, with all kinds of little doodles surrounding the scrawled handwriting. It was clear she wasn't done speaking, though, so Bob waited until she continued. "Michael...Michael didn't make it."

And so Alicia was a war widow now, just as Jamia was. She had Lindsey, and now Gerard, of course, and Jamia spent hours with her, doing whatever was necessary in grief. But it wouldn't fix anything, he knew. Jamia was only now beginning to be really healed, and it was still obvious that she missed Frank desperately. Bob heard her, sometimes, when she was awake with Frannie in the night.

He stopped, one night, rapping lightly on the doorframe when he could hear her inside. She went silent again for a long moment. Bob almost went back to his bedroom, but then he heard the whispered, "Bob?"

He came inside. Jamia was sitting in the rocking chair, clasping Frannie close to her. Frannie was asleep with her cheek on Jamia's breast, mouth hanging open a little bit and a hand fisted in her dressing gown. Jamia looked up at him, and he could see the telltale red rims under her eyes. He came to kneel next to her and rest his hand on her arm, squeezing gently. Jamia leaned into his touch a little.

Bob let them sit quietly for a long time, with his chin resting against his hand, peering into Frannie's little face. "How is she?"

"Miserable," Jamia said. Bob had been asking about Frannie, but he kept his hand on her arm, stroking his thumb soothingly. "She's...it's like having part of you torn away. It's so sudden, and there's nothing you can do."

"But she'll be alright, won't she?" Bob licked his lips and looked up at her. "You're...you're better."

"Yes, but. I have you." Jamia looked down at him, and her cheeks were flushed, making her freckles stand out even in the low light. Her hair was a mess, fuzzy from her pillow and lit by the lamp turned low behind her. There were still bags under her eyes because Frannie was sleeping more now but still needed attention at late hours sometimes and constant attention during the day. She was always lovely, always, and it seemed entirely natural for him to go up further on his knees and kiss her.

Even the first brush of their lips was firm, unapologetic and sweet. Bob would never have kissed her when Frank was alive, no matter how badly he wanted to. He hadn't wanted to, precisely, though he _did_. He had always wanted this, somewhere under his skin, but it wouldn't have come to the surface. But it was just the two of them now. And through the twists of fate, they were already a family. Her lips were warm and soft against his, and she smelled a little bit like vanilla and jasmine. She pulled away, and her eyes were still closed. Bob pressed his thumb gently to the corner of her lips, and she turned into it, kissing it.

Jamia stood carefully, with Bob's support to her elbow, and put Frannie back in her crib, extricating her blouse carefully from tense, sleepy fingers. She took Bob's hand then, and for the first time, he followed her back to her bedroom. The bed was bigger in there, with soft cream-colored sheets. They were well-washed, worn and warm, and felt so good against his skin. He sat on the edge, watching Jamia carefully untying the dressing gown. She was already almost entirely nude underneath, out of her stockings and girdle. All that was left was a white bra with crisp lines, with just a hint of pale breast underneath, and high-waisted underwear that skimmed just under her ribcage. She looked shy, but Bob stood up and rested his hands on her hips, feeling her flesh held taught by the fabric. He pulled her in and kissed her again, his tongue tracing lightly over her lips. She inhaled, a sweet little gasp, and her lips parted. The kiss deepened, and Bob wondered if he should feel guilty. He didn't.

He got her out of her bra, breasts spilling out, and he kissed around both of her nipples until they were pink and hard. Next was her underwear, peeling them off her body and down her legs, off to the floor. There were red marks, where the unforgiving fabric had held in all her soft parts through the day. He kissed those too, running his tongue along the reddened grooves.

It was his turn then, to stand and let her strip him, fingers a little shaky; it was far from the surety with which she had done up the same buttons. But he was bared too, soon enough. He was losing the muscle he'd gained from plenty of exercise and not enough food in the army, going soft with her home-cooked meals and doing work as light as hefting boxes of screws at the store. He would have wanted her to see him at his prime, but she kissed him anyway, running her hands over his chest and down his shoulders and arms.

She seemed so small, spread on the bed underneath him. She was such a spirit when she was up and moving around, made taller out of pure will. But like this she seemed delicate, so delicate, and he was careful with her. It was tough; the only women around overseas had been prostitutes and village women who most likely had husbands or fathers who would be looking after them. Bob hadn't wanted any of that, and it had been a long time since he'd felt this. But it had to have been a long time for her too, and she deserved someone who would be tender, kissing her softly while he worked his way inside her. Her arms were locked around his neck, pulling him down close, as if there was anywhere else he would rather be now. When he was sheathed in her entirely, he pulled back from the kiss enough to look into her eyes. She was staring back at him, two high points of red on her cheeks, and her lips were parted just a little. Bob thrust in, slow and steady, even though he was desperate. They both needed this to be sweet.

Bob came far sooner than he would have liked, not that it wasn't expected. He used his fingers to bring Jamia to her climax as well, letting her guide him with her body. He fell asleep next to her in that bed, and he knew that this was better. That they were getting better.

Michael's funeral came the following weekend, and Bob had planned to stay home with Frannie. But Jamia shook her head, pinning her neat black hat to her hair. "Don't be an idiot, of course they want you there."

He held her hand in the car and tapped his fingers restlessly against the steering wheel while she took Frannie to Miss Claret's house at the end of the block. Miss Claret was a loyal member of the women's organization, even though she was as of yet unmarried and (according to Lindsey) played piano in a _bar_ at night and, according to even shadier rumors, was being courted by a strange young man indeed. Still, she had a way with children, and she was happy to take Frannie for a few hours while Bob and Jamia were at the funeral.

Bob hadn't known Michael, and the coffin was closed. Bob wasn't sure of the body had made it home or not, and he wasn't about to ask. The service was brief. Lindsey sat in the front pew, between Alicia and a man who had to be her husband, Gerard. His dark hair had been slicked back at some point, but his hat had mussed it beyond repair. When the sermon had ended, Lindsey stood, and Bob saw that she was holding both Alicia and Gerard's hands.

Afterward, Bob felt awkward, offering his hand for Gerard to shake. But Gerard smiled, weakly, despite the haunted, almost skeletal look about him. "Lindsey's told me so much about you. It's nice to meet you."

"I'm sorry for your loss," was all Bob could think to say, and it sounded empty, devoid of emotion. Gerard nodded, though, like it meant something to him. Afterward, Jamia and Bob went across the street to Lindsey and Gerard's house. They helped pack the food that had been left so that none of the others would have to worry about it. Gerard shook his hand again before he left, and Lindsey hugged him. It was awkward to be experiencing grief like this. He hadn't been able to attend Frank's funeral, and he suddenly realized he didn't know if there had even been one. There had to have been a burial, did anyone attend? He didn't want to know, now. It was too late. But he held Jamia close while she slept and the novelty of that was enough to make him feel like he was doing something to help.

It was easier than he'd anticipated, though thinking back, there was no reason to think it would be difficult. He and Jamia fell into the same comfortable affection that they'd had since they met. The only difference was that Frank was no longer there, a ball bouncing between them. Without Frank, they were attached to each other more than ever. Frannie grew bigger every single day, it seemed, and when she first looked at him with her big brown eyes, so much like her mother's, and said _papa_ , it was the greatest moment of his life. After that, it was climbing a mountain. She learned quickly, started to walk and talk as well as laugh merrily at anything that struck her fancy.

She was almost four when the war finally ended. Bob and Jamia had followed the papers, and the radio, of course, but not as closely as some. Neither of them wanted to hear about all the other soldiers who were dying, all the families being broken apart through the years, the atrocities that seemed to come to pass every minute of the day. But then it was V-E Day, and they joined the parades, the celebrations in the streets, but it wasn't _done_. There were still men fighting and dying, and Bob still was afraid to turn on the radio and hear the news. And then V-J Day came, and there were parades again, and laughter, and Bob felt like he could breathe, for the first time in years. He kissed Jamia in the street that night, licking the whipped cream from a slice of apple pie right off her lips, like they were young and in love like they never had been. Frannie had been running around then neighborhood with other children, but she came when he called. She barreled into his arms, and squealed when he picked her up, spinning her around then pulling her in tight to kiss her cheek. He had his little girl in his arms, and his wife at his side, and the war was over. It felt like life had gone straight again, finally.

Bob was asleep when it happened, about a month after V-J Day. He liked to think of himself as a protector, like he was supposed to be, ready to spring and defend his family at a moment's notice. But the truth was, he was finally starting to sleep deeply through the night without visions of death haunting his brain, and Jamia had to shake him awake.

"I heard something," she hissed in his ear, breath hot. Bob blinked at the darkness and shifted, going up on his elbows in an attempt to wake without his pillow calling him back to sleep.

"Huh?"

"I heard something outside."

"It's probably the Way's dog." Bob closed his eyes again. Alicia had recently moved in with Lindsey and Gerard, unwilling to live alone in the house that she and Michael had bought together. It seemed one of her dogs was always in their bushes these days.

"It's not Winston." Jamia sounded honestly afraid, and Bob's stomach went cold with dread. "It sounded like someone's there."

Bob had nothing in his hand to protect him, no gun in the house or even a baseball bat, but he wasn't afraid to fight an intruder. Not if it meant protecting Frannie and Jamia. There was nothing when he looked out the bedroom windows, but when he crept into the still dark living room, he could see a figure lurking on their porch. He knew he should call the police, but a part of him--the part that had lived here with Jamia, settling warm around his heart--thought that perhaps it was a neighbor who needed something urgently. He pulled the door open, and the man standing on his porch looked up.

He was almost unrecognizable. His hair was shorn off, jaggedly, and his scalp showed through, pale. His lip was split, with a clot of blood dried disgusting and obvious in the center. His skin seemed to be a patchwork of purple and blue and sick yellowish green; bruises over every inch Bob could see, interspersed with cuts and other marks he couldn't even identify. The clothes he wore were loose, baggy, but even his face was gaunt, too-thin and ragged. He didn't look like himself. He looked like a ghoul. But he was unmistakably Frank.

Bob's tongue was swollen and dry in his mouth. Maybe it was a ghoul, a ghost, some horrible apparition from beyond the grave. But why would a ghost appear four years after his death, and not before? Why would a ghost make enough of a racket to rouse the house? It wasn't a ghost, of course it wasn't, but it couldn't be Frank. Frank, who was dead, who had died not ten feet from Bob while bullets whistled passed his head. Frank, whose body was never found.

Frank was looking at him, and his eyes were dead. Bob had never seen a look like that in Frank's eyes; no matter how lost or upset he was, there was always that spark of life, a flame of something that Bob was sure was inextinguishable. Now, that seemed to be a lie. Because it had been extinguished, and there was nothing but hollow darkness when Bob looked back at him.

Jamia came up behind him, curious about what was taking so long, while he stood there with the door open. There was a lazy warmth in her voice, calmed. "What is it? Was it Winston after all?" She pressed up against his side, and he could feel it when she went stiff, like someone had dunked her in starch as surely as one of his collars. She was the one who had the most reason to freeze up, but she was the one who was able to find her voice again, wavery though it was. "Frankie?"

Frank took a halting step forward, and he swayed on the spot. Bob and Jamia moved forward as one, each grabbing one of his shoulders to steady him and guide him inside the house. He was filthy, clothes crusted with dirt under their hands, and he winced at the touch. Bob thought to lead him to the couch, maybe the bathroom, but Jamia took the lead, pulling him towards the guest bedroom that Bob had slept in after returning from the war.

She led Frank to the bed, with only minimal guidance from Bob, and helped him to sit. He went willingly, loose as a rag doll, and Jamia sat down next to him. She sat too close, reaching down to hold his hand, and Bob felt something acidic sneak up the back of his throat.

"Frankie," she said, voice low. Frannie was still asleep, after all, and Bob couldn't even bring himself to think of her right now. "Frankie, I. We thought you _died_. They, they told us--"

Frank cleared his throat then, a rough death's rattle that made the hair on Bob's arms stand up. He looked down at his knees, apparently ignoring her hand on his. "I was in a camp. I...they just. Liberation."

Jamia nodded, and her eyes were quickly filling with tears. Bob's stomach was twisting up to think about it. All this time...all these years that he and Jamia had been so happy together, building a family and a life, Frank had been a prisoner. He'd been held captive, with no one looking for him. No one knew he was missing. No one _knew_ anything, and Frank had been left alone and obviously abused. Bob hated to think about it.

"It's alright," Jamia was murmuring, stroking Frank's hand. "It's alright, Frankie, you're home now. Bob and I are here. You're home." She must have noticed his wounds, because she looked back to Bob. "Get me a towel?" She turned her attention back to Frank, lifting her hand to brush her thumb over the split in his lip. "I...I can help you clean up. You're bleeding."

Frank's expression never changed, still as flat and broken as ever, but he jerked away from her touch. All he said was, "I'm tired."

"Of course. Of course you are." Jamia bit her lip and stood from the bed, reluctantly releasing his hand. "You've had a long...you've had a long time. You should sleep."

Frank nodded, vaguely, and without taking his clothes off, he lay back on the bed and shut his eyes. Bob wasn't sure what they were supposed to do now; they could undress him, or hold his hand again, or just _be_ there. But Jamia was backing away, shepherding him out of the room and closing the door behind them. They made it all the way back to their bedroom before she started crying.

It started with a little sniffle, but it turned quickly enough to chest-wracking sobs. Bob could only rub her back and hope that it helped; he couldn't comfort her because he was broken and lost enough himself. Frank was _alive_. Frank was back, but back to what? To find his wife and daughter being raised by his best friend? To his family that no longer belonged to him? To a world that left him in the clutches of the enemy for four years? Bob thought about how long four years had been to them--barely a blink of an eye. It seemed like just weeks ago that Frannie had been two, had been _born_ , that he'd come home from the war. He wondered how long four years would feel as a prisoner. Longer.

Jamia got back into bed eventually, though she was still heaving out dry sobs. She didn't have any tears left to cry, though Bob was sure that once they were replenished in the morning, the crying would begin again. Bob crawled into bed behind her, pulling her instinctively back against him. She went willingly, even as she shook against his chest. He was starting to drift off to sleep, haunted as he was by dark thoughts, when she shifted in his arms. She turned to face him, nose almost brushing against his, and giving him her most resolute expression. "We have to help him."

"I know," Bob said immediately, since there was no other option. Frank was _theirs_ , the third member of the happy group they'd always been. He had to pause though, thinking of that, and wondering if they would ever be carefree like that again. "But what can we do?"

"He's still family," Jamia said. "We'll figure it out." She looked into Bob's eyes then, and her brown ones were serious and as nurturing as he'd ever seen her look. It was like she was considering something, and then she leaned in, so her lips touched his when she spoke. "I...I love you."

Bob hadn't truly grasped how badly he wanted her to say that until she did. He felt relieved, lighter, and though his mind was still tied up in Frank, and his reappearance, he was able to rest at least the corner of his mind that had been whirling helplessly around, asking what would happen to his marriage now that Frank was home. "I love you too," he told her, kissing her softly. She took the kiss with a grateful hum, and she was just as sweet as the first time he'd kissed her, when it seemed she was finally starting to live again after Frank's death. "I always will."

She nodded, a little flushed, pleased and accepting, and she settled in against him. Usually she only ever slept facing away from him, with perhaps his hand on her hip or thigh to keep her anchored. But tonight she buried her face in his chest, fingers curled into the waistband of his shorts. Her breath came in hot, rhythmic puffs of air against his skin, and he smoothed his hand down the sweet curve of her back to rest just above the swell of her ass. She was warm, and as familiar as his own hands were to him by now, and he appreciated it, savored it.

He dreamt of horror, of being on the battlefield with men dying all around him. He was looking for Frank, but he was nowhere to be found. There was a trail of blood that led him everywhere, ducking under machine gun fire and dodging men with bayonets. But the trail never stopped, just got thicker and thicker until it was a river, and Bob was up to his waist, then up to his chest, and then up to his mouth and blood was flooding it. It was all he could taste because he couldn't stop calling Frank's name, he couldn't _stop_. He had to find Frank, and he knew that he couldn't, that there was nothing left for him to find. He thought he saw Frank's head, floating the bloody river, but it bobbed under before he could reach for it. There was nothing he could do, and there was nothing but the wasted battlefield. There was nothing there for him, and he woke in a cold sweat to an empty bed.

He got up and into his bathrobe and out of the bedroom. Jamia was already in the kitchen, and she didn't leave, maybe like she was safe in there. She'd made heaping plates of hashbrowns, scrambled eggs, sausages, sliced tomatoes--practically a week's worth of breakfast food, and everything that Bob knew Frank loved. But Frank didn't touch it. He sat at the table, staring vaguely at the cow-shaped salt and pepper shakers that Bob had bought Jamia for her birthday last year. With the sunshine coming through the curtains, Bob could see what bad shape Frank was truly in. He was a shell of the man Bob had known, with those hollow eyes and thin fragile wrists. He had clearly lost a good deal of weight, even though he stared past his breakfast as though it wasn't even there. He was bruised and cut, turning all kinds of painfully unnatural colors, and all this was only on the skin visible outside his shirt, sleeves pushed to his mid-forearm. Bob shuddered to imagine what might mark the rest of his body.

"Daddy!" Frank's head jerked up, in his first show of emotion since appearing, and Bob's heart froze. He didn't have to look over his shoulder; he could see everything in Frank's big, empty eyes. Frannie grabbed his arm, and he looked down at her. She was staring at Frank with a mix of little-girl shyness and her usual rampant curiosity.

"Morning, sweet pea." Bob's voice broke a little, the look on Frank's face haunting him. "This. This is--"

"I'm Frank," Frank said. His voice was a little raspy, still rougher than Bob remembered. Frank leaned forward slowly, as though avoiding tender injuries, and Bob knew he had to see what was under Frank's clothes, resting his forearm on his thigh to steady himself and extending his hand to her. "I'm a friend of...your dad's."

Frannie looked at Frank's hand for a few seconds before letting go of Bob's arm and stepping towards Frank, standing decided and tall. She took Frank's hand and shook it heartily. Bob didn't miss Frank's wince. "I'm Frances. I'm four."

"So you are," Frank said, and Bob didn't know what any of them had done to deserve this, to be forced to live this horrible tangled life. He watched while Frank stroked his thumb over the side of Frannie's little hand. He knew the fascination Frank felt, the marvel of this little dark haired girl with all her miniature working parts. Like a doll, born from his own flesh. Except she truly was born of Frank's flesh, and she had no idea. Bob couldn't imagine how Frank was holding together through this, but he was smiling, jagged and broken, like his face had cracked. Unstudied, but still a smile, strange at it may be. Frannie didn't seem afraid. "You can call me Uncle Frank. If you want."

"I don't have any uncles," Frannie told him seriously. "I have one aunt. But she lives in Chicago. That's too far to visit."

Bob reached forward to clasp his hand on her shoulder and draw her back to his side. "You have an uncle now, Frannie, don't be rude."

"It's fine," Frank said, and Bob was sure his voice was even raspier than when he first spoke. "She doesn't have to call me that. She doesn't even know me." There was so much bitterness there, venom under the hollowness.

Bob squeezed Frannie's shoulder and pushed her lightly away. "Go help Mama." She ran to the kitchen without a moment's hesitation, and Bob looked back to Frank. He hadn't moved from where he had leaned down to be closer to her, like he was frozen. Wound down, maybe, like a music box when the notes start to come stretched and slow. He was staring towards the carpet, past his still extended hand. Bob licked his lips, nervous. "Frank, I'm--"

"Fuck off," Frank said, low and dangerous. He looked up, and Bob felt like if he stared back into Frank's eyes too long, the pain in them would cut him too. It already made his chest ache to see. "If you _ever_ tell me you're fucking sorry, I'll blow your fucking head off."

Bob didn't doubt that. He swallowed his apologies and looked down at his own plate. He wasn't hungry any more, but he forced himself to eat as much as he could, finishing the eggs and choking down half of the hashbrowns.

He left Frank at the table, taking his half-empty plate and Frank's full one back into the kitchen. Frannie was sitting on the floor playing with a pair of wooden spoons. Jamia scraped the congealed food into the trash bin in stonefaced silence.

"Jamia." She set the plates in the sink and turned the water on. Bob sighed and tried again. "Jamia."

She turned to look at him and then down at Frannie, who was clacking the spoons together happily. She looked back at Bob, and her eyes were frighteningly like Frank's. "Don't leave him alone. Especially not with." Jamia closed her mouth, lips pressed into a tight line, but it wasn't as though he could mistake her meaning. Bob leaned in to kiss her temple, and she stood unmoving until he stepped away. She turned back to the sink, starting to scrub the dishes. Bob left the kitchen, though the only place he had to go was back to the table with Frank. His dead best friend, who apparently lived to see Bob take his wife and raise his child. He thought of how lost he'd felt when he came home from the war. Jamia had helped ground him, give him a place that he could fit into again. They would try to do that for Frank, but what could they do? Jamia was rightfully Frank's wife, though she and Bob had been married now longer than she and Frank had. He wouldn't be able to let her go, not after what they had gone through, healing together. And they had Frannie. What was there to say to her?

He sat in silence at the empty table with Frank. He couldn't help but look at Frank, wonder about the source of the line of purple bruises down his arms or how he'd torn his lip open like that. But Frank kept his eyes trained on the floor, never once looking up to see Bob studying him.

*

It was clear even to Bob that Frank should be in a hospital, and Bob was famous for his hatred of the medical establishments. But Frank was limping when he walked, wincing more often than not, and was obviously in more pain than Bob or Jamia were able to alleviate. Frank didn't seem to want their help, in any case. He spent most of his time in the guest bedroom, sleeping or reading, or lord knows what. Jamia often brought him soup, or invited him to dinner with the family. On the rare occasion he would emerge, he would sit in his chair silently stoic. Bob had been afraid the introduction of such an odd stranger would frighten Frannie, but on the contrary, she seemed absolutely fascinated with him. She missed her mouth with her fork more times than she got her food safely inside. Her eyes were big and constantly trained on Frank. Bob would catch himself thinking that she _recognized_ him somehow, though it was impossible.

She crawled into his lap one night before dinner, kicking his paper out of the way. Bob had to chuckle, and he rearranged to get her comfortable on his knees. She sat there for a moment before curling her fingers into the breast pocket of his shirt. "Why is Uncle Frank in bed all day?"

Bob wrapped his hand gently around her wrist, just holding it, and considered what he could say. The truth, or as close to it as he could get, seemed the best option. "Uncle Frank is very sick. He's sleeping so he can get better."

Frannie nodded seriously, tugging a little on the pocket like she always did, like she thought maybe this time it would pull away from the rest of his shirt. "Is he going to die?"

"No." Bob licked his lips, and he knew he couldn't promise anything, but Frank seemed stable, for now. And what was he supposed to tell his daughter? "If he takes good care of himself, he'll be fine."

"Good." Frannie leaned into his chest, and Bob wrapped an arm around her thin shoulders.

When he came home from work the next day, it was to find the kitchen in ruins and Frannie nowhere to be found. He looked in her room, their bedroom, quickly growing more nervous until he heard the click of a door. He came out of the bedroom in time to see her carefully pulling Frank's door closed. Jamia's warning to not let Frank be alone with her felt fresh in his ears when he rushed forward to pick her up. She made a surprised squeal, then hushed Bob loudly. "Uncle Frank is _sleeping_."

Bob carried her back to her own room and set her down the bed. There were a vast amounts of crumbs gathered on her skirt and in the corners of her mouth, and he wiped at mouth carefully with his handkerchief. "What were you doing in there, Frannie? I told you Uncle Frank needs his rest to get better, didn't I?"

"I brought him crackers," Frannie said proudly, smiling wide enough that some of the crumbs detached from the corners of her mouth. "Crackers are good when you're sick."

Bob sighed. Of course she would want to play nurse, but Bob still wasn't sure what Frank's plan was. He didn't know if Frank was going to let their family be, as is, or try to disrupt it. "That's really sweet, honey, but Uncle Frank really needs his rest. I don't want you to go in there without me or Mommy, alright?" Frannie made a face, but she nodded and was gracious enough to let him sweep the rest of the crumbs off her clothes. Bob smiled and kissed her forehead. "Good girl."

The next morning, Jamia had an early appointment, so Frannie helped Bob make pancakes. He let her stir the lumps out of the batter after he'd mixed most of it, then sent her to set the table. He watched her toddling seriously back and forth, carrying plates and utensils. She took three plates, out of habit, and Bob didn't bother to correct her. She would be more likely to insist on helping him flip the pancakes, which was never a good idea. Bob finished up the batch on his own, without Frannie coming back to offer more assistance, which was strange. But bringing the plates to the kitchen, he found her perched on Frank's knee, happily chattering away about a dream she'd had. Frank was smiling. There were still dark circles under his eyes, and his wounds were far from healed, but he was _smiling_ , like Bob hadn't seen since before they shipped out.

She was his daughter, even if she didn't know, and Bob could see how well they fit together. He had always been her father, and it hurt, to see her easy affection with another man. But that was cruelty of his own, because how could even imagine the pain Frank felt? His own daughter didn't know him.

It seemed better. _Frank_ seemed better. He was eating more and flinching less. Bob had never had a chance to properly see his wounds when he returned, but now Frank had appeared in an undershirt more than once, and Bob couldn't see anything that looked life-threatening. He was putting on weight, looking less like a ghoul and more like his old self. And he was smiling. Only for Frannie, still, but that was something. It was better than what they'd had before.

Bob came back to bed after tucking Frannie in to find Jamia sitting on her side of the bed, crying. He hurried to sit next to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in. "Baby, what is it?"

She was silent for a long time, just the soft sound of her breathing and sniffing, and the faint shake of her shoulders against his chest. He offered her a handkerchief, and she dabbed at her eyes before looking at him. They were rimmed with red, and Bob had hoped to never see her eyes look like that again. He would do anything to keep her smiling, even through this, which had to be harder on her than almost any of them.

"What's wrong?" He asked again, quietly, and Jamia blew her nose into the handkerchief.

"I was at the doctor." She leaned against him more, and Bob's hand tightened on her shoulder, mind racing to a million worries and so many terrible scenarios. It would be hard enough, to take care of Frannie on his own, but with Frank here, he didn't know what would happen in the house if Jamia had to go to the hospital. Or worse. His heart was in his throat when she finally said, "I'm pregnant."

Bob's heart was still there, though now, instead of feeling frozen and stuck, it was beating wildly, fluttering in his mouth. He didn't know what to say, so he just pulled her tighter, eyes wide. She wrapped her arm against his back, fingers curling into his shirt to hold him, as though he would run away. But he had never had any intention to leave, and now. _Now._

"That's incredible," he murmured to her hair, finally. "That's... _incredible_."

"I know." She shifted closer to him, and he could feel her smile against his chest. "I'm...I'm happy for us." What she left unspoken was still heavy in the air, but Bob wasn't going to mention it. This was a moment for them, for their _family_ , and no matter what their circumstances were now, he was going to be happy.

They didn't decide _not_ to tell, but it was too soon. Everything was strange now, and they were both cautious. For now, there was nothing to tell. When Frank had come home, Bob had taken an indefinite "vacation" from working at the store, and now things were settled enough that he could go back. He still wasn't working much; a shift here and there, in the mornings or in the afternoons, nothing that was too taxing on his still-delicate wrists and nothing that would keep him away from Jamia for too long. But someone in the house had to bring in money, and it was obviously him.

Bob wasn't aware that he was living in constant anticipation, but when he came home from work and walked in on Frank and Jamia kissing, his first thought was _finally_. For a moment, they didn't notice he was there, pressed together, and the wet sounds of their mouths moving against each other seemed louder than the radio in the car. After a moment though, his presence must have been felt, and it was almost funny how quickly they parted, Frank's hand dropping from her breast and her lipstick smeared across his lips. Bob couldn't think of what to say to them, now that what he didn't know he'd been waiting for had happened.

"She's my _wife_ ," Frank said, voice strained and eyes hard. Jamia looked down at her lap, and that was worse.

"You died," Bob said.

Frank screwed up his face. "I--"

Bob cut him off. "For us, you died. You fucking left both of us, and you can't just take that back."

Frank sneered, but it still wasn't enough time for Bob to brace himself. "Jamia doesn't seem to care."

Jamia looked up, brow furrowed. "You don't speak for me. Neither of you do."

"Then speak for yourself, " Bob said. Jamia colored, but her lips were set in her toughest line. That look usually made Bob proud of this little spitfire he'd somehow been lucky enough to marry. Now it just felt bitter.

"I never told you I wasn't still in love with him. Not when you married me and...and not when we made it real. You knew."

Bob bit his tongue because it was true. It had always been clear to both of them that Jamia would always love Frank. Bob certainly didn't begrudge her that. At least, he never had before. "I didn't know he would come back."

Frank bristled and laughed, a dry humorless sound far from his usual giggle. It had just started to be normal again, hearing that laugh in the house, and this one was horrible. "You'd be fucking thrilled if I really had died over there."

"That's a lie," Bob said, nerves and jaw tight. "I wouldn't trade having you back for the fucking _treasury_ , you know that."

"But it'd be so much easier if you could just keep having your perfect life and go on fucking my wife." Frank's smile was sick, and it made Bob sick to see it and to know that Frank believed at least part of what he was saying. He swallowed and forced himself to say what he planned in the first place, low and measured, looking back to Jamia.

"I didn't know he would come back and you would go running back to him." Jamia made a harsh sound in her throat, but Bob talked over it. "I thought...we had more than that."

Jamia's eyes were dark and sad, betrayed, and she just looked at him when Frank retorted, " _We_ have a child. A family."

It was a bitter part of Bob that saw the instant flash of panic in Jamia's eyes and made him say, "So will we." It should have given him a vindictive rush to see the way Frank jerked even further away from her. It didn't.

" _What?_ What are you talking about?" Frank looked Jamia up and down, eyes wide, stopping obviously on her middle "You're pregnant?"

 _Jamia glared at Bob, but he shrugged. It was done. She looked back at Frank, weariness written in every line of her face. "Yes, I am."_

 _Frank's lip curled, and Bob's stomach roiled. "When were you going to tell me? Did you think I wouldn't fucking find out?"_

 _Jamia flushed hotly. "You didn't precisely give me much chance for discussion."_

 _Frank looked like he might be ill. He was quiet for a moment, pale and clearly horrified. "I can't believe you let me kiss you."_

 _"It was fine when you knew I was with Bob, but not now?" Jamia narrowed her eyes, and Bob knew that they were both in serious trouble. Frank had been away too long and forgotten the look, perhaps, because he looked somewhat ashamed but didn't have the good sense to stop talking._

 _"It's different. You...you're _pregnant_."_

"And I'm still the same person as when you decided you couldn't live without your lips on mine a few minutes ago." Jamia was hard as flint, and Frank turned to Bob, presumably for support. Bob shook his head.

"You're trying to romance my wife."

"She was my wife first."

"I'm the one who's supported her," Bob snapped. "You were _barely_ married when you left her, and I'm the one who helped raise your child, who made a fucking _life_ for her, and--"

"And I'm _not a fucking doll_ ," Jamia said, voice hardly more than a hiss, and both Bob and Frank flinched. She looked between them and shook her head. "You're not children, and I'm not a plaything for you to fight over."

Bob slept on the couch that night, and he wasn't surprised to find Jamia already gone when he woke. He put the radio on for Frannie, and she danced for hours with some of her favorite dolls, twirling around like she was at some fancy ball. Bob watched her for a while, pretending to read his paper, but the phone rang.

He had hoped it would be Jamia, but instead, it was a male voice. "Uh, hello? Is this Bob? It's Gerard. Gerard Way. We, uh. We met--"

"I know who you are," Bob said, and even in the dark mood he was in, he couldn't help sounding a little amused. "Hello, Gerard."

"Hello," Gerard said again, then swore somewhere away from the receiver. There was a moment's pause before he was back. "I was wondering if you'd like to join me for a drink."

"I." Bob had to pause for a moment, simply because it was entirely unexpected. He hadn't gone out for a drink since he was in Europe, and to be going with another soldier felt like...old times. "Of course. Where would you like to meet?"

He met Gerard at the bar down near the ice cream parlor. It had been buzzing before the war, but tonight it seemed strangely subdued. It may have just been a slow night, a bad crowd, but Bob felt in his bones that something had changed. Gerard was sitting near the end with his hand loosely curled around his drink. There wasn't any liquid showing above his pale fingers, and the bartender set a fresh glass in front of him when Bob came up next to him.

"They know you here?"

Gerard looked up and smiled. "Just casual acquaintances." His smile was weak, though, like it was coming through dirty dishwater. "What's your pleasure? On me."

"What are you drinking?" Bob had never been one for fancy drinks or fine liquor. Gerard drained his first glass and picked up the second, waving it and making the ice clink against the sides.

"Scotch and soda. On the rocks."

The bartender approached again, summoned by the name of alcohol, maybe, and Bob wrinkled his nose. "I'll have a beer." The barman looked like he would spaek, and Bob shook his head. "Just...just a beer. I don't care."

Gerard sipped his scotch and soda and watched him. Bob could feel his gaze prickling the side of his neck, but he kept his eyes forward until the bartender set a bottle in front of him. He took a long swallow--it was good, strong and dark--and looked at Gerard. "There was something you wanted?"

"We have to go out without our wives once in a while, right? Keep yourself sane." It sounded sensible enough, but Gerard's smile was still watery and tight.

"Right." Bob toasted Gerard with a nod. "Here's to sanity, then."

"Sanity," Gerard mumbled before draining half of his glass. He set it down on the bar, but didn't let go. "I hear it's, uh, been pretty rough by yours lately."

"I...yes. Yes, it has." Bob didn't see the point in denying it when it was clear enough that Gerard probably knew more about what was happening in his house than he did.

Gerard licked his lips and nodded. He looked like he was considering something, brow creased. Finally, he took a breath and spoke, fingers stroking restlessly over the sweating glass. "I don't know if you remember, of ir you were ever told. But I watched my brother die."

Bob's gut heaved and he took another drink to settle it and wet his tongue, which suddenly tasted like moth balls. "I didn't know."

Gerard nodded, and he downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. He set the empty glass down but kept toying with the rim. "There was nothing I could do. He...he got hit, and then he was down. I watched him scream. And I watched him stop screaming." He waved for the bartender to bring another but kept speaking without it. "Right in front of me. They tried...we were friends, with one of the medics, and he _tried_. But there was nothing he could do. I...I didn't think I would ever be happy again."

"I'm sorry." Gerard waved off Bob's apology, then stopped when he used that hand to accept a fresh drink.

"I am. Happy, I mean. Most of the time. I have Lindsey, and. It's better than I ever imagined it could get without him."

Bob stayed silent, waiting for the point. It wasn't the kind of story that buddies shared over a drink, and it was obvious how much it pained Gerard to tell it. He wouldn't have shared it if he didn't think he had to; this was a story with a lesson, clearly, and when Gerard finished swallowing, he got it.

"I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. But I'd give the world and everything in it to have him back. You...you're so fucking lucky. You have another chance."

Bob felt it, of course he did. He'd been thinking the same thought since Frank had come back. But hearing it out loud made it so much worse. Hearing it from Gerard, who had lost _everything_ in a moment and was still trying to scrounge the pieces of himself back together. He felt like a complete bastard, greedy and spiteful. He had his best friend back, after all these years, and all he could do was think of it as an inconvenience. And he couldn't even manage to give Frank, who had suffered years of struggle as a prisoner, a boost back to his life before? Bob had Jamia to make life normal for him again, and he was denying Frank that chance.

Gerard was still looking at him, and Bob managed to nod briefly, through the welling emotion. Gerard clapped him on the shoulder, missing a little bit but nodding back. "You're a good man, Bob." Bob winced, and didn't believe that at all.

Even after his talk with Gerard, the guilt that was practically suffocating him, it took Bob another few days before he could work up the courage to speak to Frank about it. He was tearing his own life apart, he knew that, but he didn't know what else he could do. He'd always done what was _right_. He married Jamia to take care of her and her baby because that was what Frank would have wanted. It was the right thing to do; falling in love with both of them had been unexpected. And it hadn't been right, no matter how happy he'd been.

He knocked on Frank's door after dinner. The dishes were already done, both of them changed for bed, and Bob had kissed Jamia's cheek and told her where he was going. She hadn't said anything, but a flush rose in her cheeks that Bob couldn't take for anything but approval. Selfishly, he'd hoped that maybe she would deny it, tell him not to go through with something so ridiculous. But she didn't, and Bob found Frank reading next to the window. Bob didn't know what he could say, how to possibly articulate everything that's been weighing on his mind for the past few days. So he said, "I want you to have her."

Frank's cheek twitched, and Bob saw his Adam's apple bob. He put a finger in the spine of his book, a subconscious habit, and looked up at Bob properly. "Have...what?"

Bob closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I know she wants you. And...you're right. I'm the odd part here. So if she'll still have you, I. I won't stand in your way."

Frank was eying Bob with clear suspicion, lip curling. Bob didn't blame him; it was certainly an odd proposition. Frank set the book on the windowsill and turned to face Bob. "You're telling me to fuck your wife?"

It made Bob wince, to hear it like that, but he nodded. "I'm saying you can. If both of you want to." And it was clear enough to him that Jamia wanted to, and Frank must have known that.

Frank was frowning, eyebrows knit together, but there was a look in his eyes Bob hadn't seen since before they shipped out. "What about you? Is this a one-night offer?"

Bob hated saying it, but the guilt was still so bitter in the back of his throat, Gerard's eyes hollow in the back of his mind. "I'm...I don't know. But you and Jamia, that's real. I shouldn't be in the way."

"You're." Frank sounded bewildered, like he was actually connecting with something besides anger for the first time Bob had seen since he got home. He shook his head. "If it were me, I don't think I could ever _think_ about doing this."

Bob flushed. "Well, you're not me. So go be with your wife." Frank nodded and stood. Bob reached out to stop him, instinctively. Even through his shirt, Frank's elbow was warm. "Just. Come get me when...when you're done. Fran gets up early on Sundays. I...she doesn't need to see that." He didn't know what would happen now, for Frannie. They couldn't tell her--they _couldn't_. But maybe Bob would be kindly thanked for his time and asked to leave. Frank, Jamia, and Frannie would make a beautiful dark family, and maybe their baby would take after her. The four of them would be lovely; they didn't need a blond, wife-stealing lummox to ruin their family picture.

He and Jamia had already put Frannie to bed, but she was awake when he went in to check on her. He sat next to her on the bed, kissing her forehead and rumbling one or two of her favorite lullabies to help her the rest of the way to sleep. He didn't think about what Frank and Jamia must be doing, how it twisted in his heart and throbbed in his groin. He went to Frank's room and lay on his usual side of the bed. Maybe Frank would take his side now. Would Jamia tell him? Or had he been the one who took _Frank's_ side, crawling in next to Jamia without considering who slept their first. But Frank and Jamia weren't sleeping now, and Bob lay there quietly ashamed of his half-hard cock. He could _see_ it, though, in his mind's eye, and who wouldn't be aroused? He knew the pillowy curves of Jamia's body, laughter flickering in her dark eyes, digging her fingernails into his back as she came. And he knew Frank's small, lithe body, endlessly capable of twisting in the wildest shapes and full of boundless energy. He would be a good lover, Bob thought, cheeks burning from shame, more focused than you'd expect, like he was while playing his guitar.

His hand slipped under the covers, moving closer. He was still too embarrassed to do more than rest his hand on his thigh, but courage would come. As time went by, and his imaginings moved from Frank and Jamia kissing, tender after so long apart, to them making desperate love, Jamia clutching at Frank's slim shoulders like she's always held his broad ones, both of them--

In one moment, his hand met his cock and the door burst open. It was only through force of habit that he stifled the instinctive shout and avoided rousing Frannie from her bed, jerking his hand away. Frank stood in his doorway, flushed and his hair mussed. He was stripped to just his pants and undershirt, feet bare and suspenders hanging down by his knees. His eyes were wide and his mouth twisted into something between shock and horror. "I...I _can't_."

"Can't. What?" Bob's erection showed no signs of flagging, no matter how startled he was. Frank's presence, in fact, was just making him twitch, and the very thought made Bob's stomach flip over. He sat up a little, hoping that the rumpled sheets would be enough cover.

"I can't do it." Frank licked his lips and raked a hand through his hair, making it even more of a mess.

"It's." Bob swallowed hard. It should have been good news for him, but he forced himself to shake his head. "I told you. It's fine. I...I'm fine."

"No," Frank said, and he looked almost insane in the low light. "I _can't_. I really. I." He took a deep breath, and Bob realized that the flush in his cheeks wasn't just from exertion. "I can't."

"Oh." Bob couldn't help but glance down, and see that Frank's fly was partially undone. He snapped his eyes back to Frank's face. "Is this...have you--"

" _No_. It's not. It's...it's never happened to me." Frank swore under his breath, something colorful in a language Bob wasn't certain was English. "Fuck. I just. She's having your _child_."

"I know," Bob said, blankly.

"I just. It just _won't_." Frank looked down at his crotch like he was disappointed in it, and Bob felt an uncomfortable throb in his own groin. Frank looked back at Bob, and his eyes were wild, a little frightening. "Help me?"

"I. What? What could I possibly--" But he broke off, because Frank was walking over to him, curling his hand around Bob's wrist and bringing Bob's hand to rest against the front of Frank's pants. "What the _fuck_."

He tried to pull away but, admittedly, not very insistently. Frank was rolling his hips into Bob's hand and making these noises, little desperate breathy ones that Bob would under pain of firing squad swear he'd never heard in the barracks. Bob curled his hand a little to fit around Frank's cock, which he could _feel_ hardening under his hand. He didn't want to think about this, what he was doing, and he didn't want to wonder why his hand could make Frank hard when Jamia's apparently couldn't. Men in the service had done this, sometimes, he'd heard. Buddies doing each other a favor when the lights were out, and there was nothing wrong with that. But those were men out alone, with nothing but each other for company, not men with a beautiful and willing and loving woman just at the end of the hall. Whatever the reason, Frank was getting harder under Bob's hand, but he wasn't stopping. His breath was coming fast, and Bob's own cock twitched, almost out of jealousy. Frank clasped Bob's hand close, working his hips in short, sharp thrusts, and Bob pressed against him. Frank moaned and Bob _felt_ it when he came.

Frank slumped after that, hand braced against the wall, and Bob was practically vibrating in his desperation. Frank gulped down air and looked down at Bob, still something dark in his eyes, though they were heavy-lidded. "I guess I can't now," he mumbled. Bob didn't have anything to say to that. But Frank didn't let go of his hand. He tugged on it, instead, forcing Bob to his feet.

Bob flushed red, his erection painfully obvious, but Frank didn't say anything about it. He guided Bob down the hall, down to the bedroom, and Bob was so confused, too lost to be afraid. Frank opened the door, pushed him inside, and Bob stumbled. He caught himself with his hands on the foot of the bed and looked up to see Jamia looking back at him. She was nude, lovely as always, and she was smiling at him. There were the faint remnants of tear tracks down her cheeks, but now her smile was bright, and she held her hands out to him. Bob looked behind him to see Frank stripping off his undershirt and then back to her.

"Come here," she whispered, and Bob had always been powerless to her. He climbed into the bed, lying down next to her, so his clothed form curled against her bare side. He let his hand rest on her belly, even though it was much too early for anything to have changed. She put her hand on top of his anyway, and she hummed when he kissed her. It felt like it had been years since they were together like this, but they had never been together like this...not lying in bed with Frank watching. Jamia must have noticed him looking, his eyes straying even while he kissed her and she pulled back. "It was his idea."

"What is this?"

"It's _us_ ," Frank said, suddenly, and he sounded so much like his old self, his young self, that it made Bob's chest ache. "We're...we both married her. We both loved her. You always have."

Bob's nerves flared up and he shook his head. "I never--"

"I know." Frank smiled a little, one of those rare, precious smiles he had rationed so carefully to Frannie. "But we loved her. And she loved us, Lord knows why." Jamia laughed at that, a giggle that sounded like high school, sunny days in the back of Frank's car without a care in the world. "And. Then there's you and I."

Frank was the one who had come in his pants, rutting against Bob's hand, but Bob was the one who blushed crimson. Frank crawled into bed, then, chest bare and pale except for fading bruises, and cupped his hands around Bob's face, kissing him hard. Frank's kiss was nothing like Jamia's, although Bob thought that maybe he could see how Jamia's kisses had been learned as a response to this. It was pure passion that flooded through him as hot as molten lead, and it was everything Bob had never allowed himself to want.

"You and I," Frank muttered against his lips, voice rough again, but for all the _right_ reasons now, "you and I have something special. It would be a shame to let anyone, even God, frighten us away from it."

Bob could do nothing but nod weakly, and Frank kissed him again, thumbs stroking over the faint scratch of his beard. Bob was swept away with it, lost in the kiss until he felt Jamia's hand on his thigh. Frank was pulling away then, and Bob saw Jamia grin. "You already had yours, Frankie. Give us a turn."

Frank laughed, but he moved out of the way, allowing Jamia to tug at the buttons of his shirt, like so many years ago she had done them up for him when he was too weak to even dress himself. He hadn't thought of that morning in ages, but it seemed appropriate now. They had all been through so much, together or alone, and had survived such times. Did they not deserve the joy they could find?

Jamia undressed him quickly, and Bob flushed when Frank made lewd appreciative sounds, reaching over now and then to tweak a nipple or rake his fingers through the blond hair that covered Bob's broad chest and thick belly. Bob couldn't deny that especially now as a thoroughly settled (in all senses of the word) family man he had always envied Frank his slim smooth body, but Frank seemed fascinated.

"You're a wonder," he said, while Jamia carefully slipped Bob's aching cock out of his shorts. Bob moaned piteously high, and Frank leaned down to kiss the line of Bob's neck. He kept kissing and licking, nibbling at Bob's earlobes, while Jamia came to settle on top of him, sinking onto his cock. He was swallowed, consumed entirely by wet heat, and he hardly knew what he was doing, arching his back and digging his fingertips into the softness of her hips as Frank scraped his teeth along his collarbone. He thrust in deep, arching up to meet her when she dropped down again, and it felt as though he was going deeper than ever. Frank was sucking wet kisses into his neck and shoulder and then dropping his hand to rub at the place where Jamia was spread open around Bob's cock.

"God," Bob groaned. Jamia's hands were planted on his chest, her fingertips brushing his nipples. They'd never been his most sensitive part, but with the full sensory overload from Frank and Jamia both, _every_ part of him seemed to be buzzing. Frank kissed his way up Bob's neck, to pull on his ear with his teeth, not too gently. Bob grunted and rubbed his hands restlessly over Jamia's hips, constantly rocking against her. "Was he always this rough?"

Jamia laughed, breath coming in little gasps and pants, and closed her eyes. Her hair was starting to fall even more in her face, dark and thick and tangled with sweat. "This rough? You don't know rough."

Frank chuckled wetly against Bob's ear, and he sucked as much as he could into his mouth. "I'm playing soft with you, Bryar, you better appreciate it."

Bob had a clever comeback, planned to challenge Frank on how _rough_ he wanted to play, but Jamia clenched around him and all words left Bob's mind. In the beginning, he'd felt incredibly strange and lazy when she crawled on top of him. It was a little shameful, to force your wife to do all the work of love-making. But it felt so incredibly _good_ , and she liked it. That she enjoyed it was the most important part, of course, and when she was lost in the pleasure, he was dragged along with her. With Frank here, it was at an entirely different level. Frank left a wet kiss on Bob's ear, then sat up to kiss Jamia hard. She was still rolling her hips down to meet Bob's, but now her lips were held entirely by Frank. They were beautiful together, as they always had been, both dark and flushed. He could feel the chemistry between the two of them, the familiarity in their touches, but he wasn't threatened by it. It was a baseline that added to what he and Jamia had, and made entirely different with the new facet of Bob and Frank. The three of them together was nothing like any two of them.

His mind had been away, too distracted to notice how much faster Jamia was rocking and the attention Frank had put back on his neck, biting and licking and sucking. It was all too much for him when he was back to himself, overwhelmed by feeling. Bob came with a low grunt, and he watched with fascination and vague horror while Jamia moved off of him, and Frank immediately clasped his hands around her thighs and licked into her. He was lying across Bob, his open fly and hard cock pressing into Bob's belly, while he made Jamia squirm and moan. He had to be tasting Bob's release, still bitter inside her, and the thought made Bob groan, despite his spent cock. He felt lazy, too exhausted to do anything but rub his hand along Frank's back while he sucked and licked at Jamia. She was shifting on the bed, sheets rucking and twisting underneath her, and Frank's cock dragged stickily against Bob's belly when he wriggled too, mimicking her. She moaned, finally, with the little hiccup at the end that Bob recognized well. And then Frank was off of him, lying next to him on his side, and Jamia was clambering over Bob, still giggling, to lie between Frank's thighs and take his cock, still sticky from his prior release, into her mouth.

Bob kissed Frank while Jamia tended to him, swallowing down all the grunts and groans and cut-off words until there was just a constant low hum against Bob's lips and all through his body. He pulled away for a moment, to look down at Jamia with her pink lips stretched around Frank's flushed cock, dark hair falling in front of her eyes and fanning over Frank's still scrawny thighs, but Frank yanked him back in to feed Bob a desperate moan. Frank bit down on Bob's lip when he came, and Jamia kissed both of them in turn, lips red and slick. The world spun a little, a sweet sweaty haze, and Bob didn't know what came next because he was already asleep.

He'd become a light sleeper in the war, when any sound could be death a few feet away, and with a child in the house, he stayed that way. He'd only recently begun to have better sleep, but once Frank came back, that too was gone. Now, he slept through whatever maneuvering there was but he woke up to the sound of someone stumbling around. He opened his eyes in time to see a shape coming through the bedroom door. He blinked, hoping it was a trick, his adjusting eyes making the darkness move, but the shape bumped into the corner of the bed and swore and it was Frank. Bob frowned a little, sleep-addled and confused. Frank fumbled along the foot of the bed and then climbed in. For a second, Bob thought he must be dreaming, but Frank was crawling up the bed, into the empty space left when Jamia had rolled over to bury her face in Bob's chest. Now that he was awake, her hair tickled his nose and made him want to sneeze, but he held it, watching Frank settle on the far side of the bed. He remembered, too, now that he was awake, and only wondered where Frank had been. From his vantage point, it didn't look like Frank was touching Jamia, but he was close. It was still and silent for a moment, but then Frank made a soft frustrated sound and got off the bed. He stood at the foot, looking between them, almost like he was lost. Bob didn't know what was going on, or what he was supposed to say, but Jamia grumbled and rolled away from him again. And Frank was there in a flash, climbing between them and pressing his nose to Bob's chest, like Jamia had been a minute ago. Frank exhaled, a long shaky breath, and then whispered, "Had to piss."

A snort escaped Bob before he could hold it in, and he felt the bed shift while Jamia rolled back again, to fit herself against Frank's back. Her hand landed across Frank, to rest on Bob's thigh, and it was like a perfect circuit. Everything clicked into place, sweet and warm and _perfect_ deep in his chest and all the way up and down his spine. He reached back over Frank, to mimic Jamia with a hand on her hip, and they were all connected, skin-to-skin and so much deeper than that.

*

The hiss of meat on a grill was something that Bob thought he would always enjoy--at least as long as it was accompanied by the desperate giggles of children and a clear blue sky. Gerard and Lindsey sat in the new patio chairs, with the solemn dark-haired Arthur sitting on Gerard's lap. His chubby cheeks were constantly flushed, and his eyes never stopped moving. Bob waved his tongs at him, but Arthur didn't react. Gerard laughed, though, and used his hand to wave at Bob with Arthur's arm. Alicia was on the grass with Lee, who was a perfect pair for Arthur apart from the squawky peals of laughter that constantly escaped her. She was happy, happier than Bob would ever have expected, and Bob didn't think he would be too wrong to suspect that her light and Arthur's adorable frowns played a role in dragging Gerard back from the miserable bottom of the bottle he'd been drowning himself in. Lindsey pressed a perfectly manicured nail to the tip of Arthur's nose, and he coughed importantly.

"Best Fourth I've seen in a while," said Ray, the young man who Gerard and Lindsey had shepherded in despite his protests that he could certainly find his own celebration and he hated to intrude on their party. Ray was a war buddy of Gerard's, and more than that; he was, according to Jamia's whispers, gleaned no doubt from Alicia, the medic friend who had not been able to save Michael's life. He was new to the neighborhood, sick of living back at home where none of his friends were still alive, and his wife would be following him in a week or so with their belongings. He was quite friendly and obviously eager to get into Bob's good graces. He wondered what Gerard had told Ray about them; he was used to the current of gossip from Jamia, but hadn't considered that it must flow in both directions.

"It's gorgeous," Bob agreed. Alicia scooped Lee into her arms, carrying her over to Lindsey while the little girl shrieked with laughter. Alicia sat in one of the other patio chairs, and her smile was brighter than Bob remembered it being as well. Her eyes were still dark, and there was a tightness in her shoulders when she was standing apart from the group, but she seemed happy. They all seemed _happy_ now.

Bob went to get another glass of lemonade from the pitcher on the patio table. He could see Frank and Frannie, sitting on the back stoop together, hip to hip, eating fat slices of watermelon. Frannie had juice all down her chin and onto the collar of her smart white top, and Frank wasn't much better.

"They have four dogs," Frannie was telling Frank seriously. She seemed so much bigger now at six than Bob had ever expected her to get. He couldn't imagine what it would be like when she was twelve, sixteen, twenty. "And the Schechters have two."

"You've got a point," Frank said, taking a bite of his melon. "I think you'd be better off pouting."

"Uncle _Frank_ , this is serious." Frannie sounded entirely scandalized and entirely thrilled. Bob grinned and took a sip of his lemonade. "I have _plans_."

"I'm sure you do, kiddo." Frank bumped lightly against Frannie, and her freckled nose almost went into her watermelon. She didn't seem to mind. She drew her toe through the pebbles and dirt at her feet, studiedly casual.

"Daddy says that if I'm good, that. That maybe you'll want to be my daddy too."

Bob had said that, whispered at night when Frannie kissed his cheek after already bestowing kisses on Jamia and Frank. She had turned pink then and hid under her covers as though she didn't hear him say anything. She was pink again now, flushed across the bridge of her nose and on the tips of her ears. Frank was silent for a long moment before he wrapped his arm around Frannie's slight shoulders. "No maybe about it, kiddo. I'd...I'd like that a lot."

There was some vicious part deep inside of his mind that told him to be jealous, to be threatened, but all he could be was touched. Touched and proud, as his heart hammered hard enough to burst. Frannie settled against Frank's chest. "Me too."

"Look who's up." Bob turned to see Jamia coming around the side of the house, with Sarah cradled to her chest.

"Good morning, baby." Bob held his arms out immediately, and Jamia shook her head when she handed the baby over. Sarah was so small, so delicate in his arms, like Frannie used to be. But Sarah had a tuft of blonde hair, like a little disgruntled chick, and a tendency to yank on things that got in the way of her little fists that Bob attributed entirely to his input. Frannie was already thrilled to be a big sister and had seriously inquired about the possibility of her losing her own room when Sarah was old enough to need her own bed. The new nursery, made out of the guest bedroom, would be a perfectly fine new bedroom, Bob thought, but he'd let Frannie stew for a while. Maybe it would give her something to worry about besides her crusade for a puppy. Of course, with Frank joining forces with her, it seemed that the puppy was unavoidable. Not that Bob was trying to avoid it.

He carried Sarah over towards the grill, holding her to one side while he used the other hand to flip the burgers over. She scrunched up her face at the smell of charcoal, and Bob kissed her baby-smooth cheek. She squirmed in his arms, and Bob looked out over the yard. Ray, it seemed, had been hit by a watermelon seed; whether Frank or Frannie was to blame, no one could say. Arthur had a handful of Gerard's nose, and Lee cackled merrily from Lindsey's lap while Alicia pressed closer to Lindsey's side to wrap her hand carefully around Arthur's wrist and coax him off. All of them, Frank and Gerard, and Jamia and Lindsey and Alicia, and even Ray, all these people who had been scattered and broken were now together and happy. They had their children, and the blue sky, and they had love, lost and found and found again. They had hands to hold and lemonade on a summer day. Bob couldn't think of anything more he could have wanted.

**Author's Note:**

>  **prompt:** 410\. MCR Bob/Frank/Jamia WWII AU - (I am borrowing elements of this from someone else who may or may not wish to remain nameless) Frank and Jamia get married right before Frank goes off and gets killed in the war. Bob is wounded trying to save him and gets sent home. Jamia is pregnant, and Bob promised Frank he'd take care of her if anything happened to Frank, and they end up getting married. It's totally a ~marriage of convenience~ at first, but over time, they fall in love and it is slow and shy and full of guilty longing. BUT THEN it turns out Frank hadn't died, he'd been taken prisoner, and he's released when the war's over. He's starved and beaten and sick, and Jamia and Bob nurse him back to health, and there is stoic pining and people worried about honor and duty and thinking they're the fifth wheel. AND THEN A HAPPY THREESOME ENDING. *cough*


End file.
